Cat blog about my life with many, many cats.

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

The Chewing of the Shrew

Last night was a misty, rainy night, and the cats were nestled indoors. Around dinner-time, they became "activated," as we call it. This is the time when meals are demanded, rubs are requested, and the cats interact with each other in our open dining room area, rubbing noses, playing, and generally behaving like a big feline family.

I noticed that Roman, our orange boy, and Becka, his tortoiseshell sister, were checking something out beneath our radiator pipes at the side of the room. I didn't think anything about it until I started to hear some squeaking. Tom was working on a drawing in the other room. I asked him, "Is that the sound of your markers?"

It wasn't. It was Mr. Shrew.

Mr. Shrew had apparently come inside seeking a dry spot, away from the rain. He didn't realize that he was entering a Dangerous Den of Cats. (We really should put up a warning sign or something. "Small, Tasty Creatures - Keep Out!")

I have a technique for catching mice and shrews that the cats bring in. Our cats are very well fed, so, generally, they don't eat them. (Generally.) So, quite often, I'm able to retrieve the rodent and take him back outside. I usually trap the little guy in a box.

It took me a while to find a box, and it was quite a comedy of errors tossing cats out of the room and closing off the doors. The cats were very determined to play with poor Mr. Shrew, who already had a gash in his side from one of our pusses. I was determined to save the little guy.

Finally, I trapped a scared Mr. Shrew in a greeting card box and gently returned him outside. I did a little energy healing work on him (which animals respond very well to.) I hoped to minimize some of his shock and pain. It looked like he would be okay, the gash on his side was small enough. I hoped.

Thank goodness, this little evening melodrama didn't become The Eating of the Shrew. It was more the Chewing of the Shrew, unfortunately, but I think he escaped a far worser fate.

He was a cutie, a little dark brown fellow with a tiny spiked tail and two little brown dots for eyes. Like one of Cinderella's footmen.

As I gently sent him off into the bushes and the dark, rainy night, I hoped for the best. When feline and rodent beasts collide, things can get a little hairy. Who needs the Animal Channel when you're living in the country?


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